


Killing Is More Fun With You

by bowlingfornerds



Series: long fics [8]
Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins, Bounty Hunters, Jaha's the bad guy, Murphy is a main character bc i love him, Slow Burn, and his story line can be super interesting, and the others are kick ass agents, doing their kick ass illegal work, hit men, hopefully no fluff, like them starting to slowly like each other, not direct bellarke though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4123218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d read the file inside and out and memorised it – Jaha was, although the Mayor of Arcadia, a drugs trafficker; and the man who’d wired her one hundred thousand pounds through three different accounts (routed via Spain, to be exact) wanted him dead. </p><p>Inspired by this tumblr prompt:<br/>We’re assassins assigned to take out the same guy and we got so caught up arguing over who gets to kill him we didn't notice him run away.</p><p>TLDR; bellarke+murphy+assassins+cuba</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super sorry for the length. I had meant to write something quick and funny with silly humour, and then it turned into this.
> 
> But I loved writing it so I hope you enjoy reading it. I'm not all that great at describing action scenes, so it's a lot of standing around with guns - maybe one day I'll actually write a half decent fist fight.
> 
> EDIT: This was originally in one part, but I've decided to spread it out over chapters and make edits as I go along. It should all be posted today, as well.
> 
> Enjoy.

Clarke checked the bullets in her pistol before sliding it back into her waistband. She then felt around for the knife, sticking out of her boot, and the small shard of metal in her sleeve. Finally, she picked up her sniper rifle from its case and carried it out to her car. Clarke placed it on the front seat and started the engine, aware the party wasn’t going to start for another two hours. She was punctual – always punctual. If she wasn’t on time, she was early. Clarke was fully aware that her friends were annoyed by this fact.

She had been a trained assassin for over five years – starting off in the army and moving her way into the SAS before realising that it wasn’t for her. Her friends called her a ‘hit man’ or ‘bounty hunter’ and she never corrected them. She didn’t care if there were differences or not – she just cared they didn’t hate her for it.

(They didn’t hate her, but they were wary. Over time, they got over it.)

Clarke had met her friends through a guy in her training class – Bellamy Blake. And while she didn’t get along with him a lot of the time, she enjoyed the company of his sister and their friends. Clarke saw it as worth it; she got to hang out with a lot of good people, at the expense of an argument or two with Blake about nothing in particular (the time he mentioned in passing that DC was better than Marvel resulted in a two week fight that they still brought up, from time to time).

Tonight, however, Blake wasn’t on her mind. Thelonious Jaha was.

She’d read the file inside and out and memorised it – Jaha was, although the Mayor of Arcadia, a drugs trafficker; and the man who’d wired her one hundred thousand pounds through three different accounts (routed via Spain, to be exact) wanted him dead. Clarke didn’t care one way or theother. But the money could be added to her fund to buy a big house and own an art gallery someday.

Killing the man she’d grown up with was another factor.

As she drove, she considered her position on the matter. She could, at any point, decline the mission. She could send the money back and pretend it never happened – but that wasn’t her. She always went through with a kill. Even if it was to her best friend’s dad. No – her _dead_ best friend’s dad. Sighing, she pushed the thought of Wells out of her mind – she knew he wouldn’t approve of her life. He had been all for her joining the army – if that was what she really wanted. But when he found out about the SAS and then, when she quit to go into a fairly illegal career, he was furious.

She had mixed feelings over not having to see him angry for very long.

Three days after he found out, he was shot in the head by an enemy of Jaha.

-

Bellamy Blake was more fond of the direct approach when it came to killing. He didn’t like using a sniper from a building over and getting out easily – he liked the challenge; the fear; the adrenaline coursing through his veins and not knowing whether or not he had been caught. He planned to do this, tonight, where he had been paid to kill Thelonious Jaha.

His money – one hundred thousand pounds from a mystery source – had come through that afternoon, and so as he drove his beat up truck in the direction of the annual Mayor’s Ball, he was firmly aware that he was going to leave that night as a fresh killer.

He couldn’t really say what he liked about his job. Maybe it was the money (of course it was the money) after living in poverty for the majority of his life; the security he received with it. He liked the feeling, too – like he was going to be killed at any moment and he was saving the world, or something – even though he knew what he was really doing was just killing a guy with enemies. Often, these people weren’t even half bad. They had just done something to royally piss someone else off.

Thelonious Jaha wasn’t really like that, Bellamy thought. He sold drugs on a huge scale; money laundering under the false claim of ‘charitable donations’ and generally, he was an ass hole. At least, Bellamy thought so. Jaha had been the one to refuse his mother, Aurora, her child benefit, after having another child. Aurora had to raise two children with just enough to raise one – and Bellamy was constantly annoyed about that. It gave him a late start after his mother died, and he had to be the sole provider for his younger sister, for not even enough money to look after himself.

But Bellamy scolded himself for these thoughts; he couldn’t make a kill personal. It was against all of the rules he'd learnt.

Bellamy parked a couple roads away from the Ball ( _Jaha’s last_ , he thought), and climbed out of his truck. He was well aware the party started in ten minutes, but he was never one to get there early. If you’re one of the first faces, you’re also one of the most memorable.

Bellamy worked his whole life not to be remembered.

He checked over his suit; making sure it didn’t have any obvious wrinkles (Octavia had ironed it all for him, because using a dry cleaners was a luxury he couldn’t afford – not unless he got payments like this one a whole lot more often). Then he patted around for his guns. He had a small pistol hidden by his side, under the jacket, and a knife strapped to his right calf. There was another blade stuck up his sleeve and he knew that he would have to actually walk up to Jaha to kill him – there wasn’t another plan.

He walked in the direction of the museum, hands in his pockets, looking fairly casual when he spotted the car. The red sedan. Annoyance crept into his bones and he sighed, looking away. Of course Griffin was here. Why wouldn’t she be?

Clarke Griffin had been the bane of his existence since he met her, all of five years ago. He’d seen her strictly as a work problem, but when his sister had met her, there were no boundaries left. Octavia had pulled Griffin into his social life, and caused him unlimited problems – from Griffin eating the last cookie, to choosing a film he didn’t like. She was also scary-good at Monopoly, although Bellamy took to watching her like a hawk, during those games, convinced she was cheating somehow.

But if Clarke Griffin was at the Ball tonight, he didn’t know whether to be happy or not. She could be there as an invited guest – having known the Mayor since her birth, and grown up with a mother as the councilwoman, tricking all of the nobilities around her that she was actually an artist, not an assassin – or she was there on a job.

Bellamy just hoped she wasn’t there to kill Jaha. He didn’t know if her doing it before him (she always came first – from work to the three or four times they hooked up) would cause his payment to be retracted. He really hoped not. The money from the last kill, a little over two months ago, was running out, and he needed to pay for Octavia’s Master’s degree somehow .

-

Clarke had parked a road or so away from the museum where the Ball was to be held, checking the time on her watch. Six thirty. She was an hour and a half early and she smiled to herself. Clarke was leisurely about making her way to the building next door and situating herself on the roof. She never liked bringing the case for her sniper rifle with her, so she had to look fairly nonchalant about carrying it through the streets. (Clarke wasn’t very good at act nonchalant, even if she was a paid assassin.)

She set her rifle up on the edge of the roof, jamming the door behind her to make sure she had no interruptions, and got into a comfortable position. It was going to be a long night.

To satisfy her boredom, she constantly checked the trajectory of her rifle through the large skylight – a large dome of windows that allowed anyone outside to see directly into the main show room; where the party was to be held. She could see people setting up, and she could even see her mother, hurrying through. She could almost imagine her mother’s shoes clacking against the marble floor, and she felt a pit in her stomach. Had she declined the invite? Or had she left it on her kitchen counter, ready to send back in the post, but always forgetting?

Her answer came in the form of a phone call.

“Clarke,” her mother said as a form of greeting.

“Mum,” she replied, looking down through the skylight. She could see her mother standing by the main stage, holding her phone to her ear.

“Are you coming to the Ball tonight?” She asked. “We never received your reply card.” Damn, Clarke thought. She guessed she did leave it on the counter, then.

“Ah, sorry, no,” she replied, faking a wince in her voice. “I meant to send that off.”

“Clarke.” She could hear the condescension in her mother’s voice. Abby Griffin had practically perfected condescension by this point. “You know, there will be a lot of men here tonight – eligible bachelors,” she added. Clarke resisted the temptation to roll her eyes, and turned, sitting against the wall on the side of the building.

“I don’t think I can make it,” she said simply.

“But they probably won’t mind your job,” Abby continued as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “I really do think it would be good for you to come – we haven’t seen you in a long time.” Clarke knew this was true. After joining the SAS and quitting a year or so later, she hadn’t really bothered to visit her mother. Although she still lived in the same town (well, most of the time, if she wasn’t travelling to other countries to kill people for money), she rarely saw anyone from her old life.

Clarke didn’t know if she regretted that or not.

“I can’t, Mum,” she insisted.

“But why not?” It was a good question. Why not? Why couldn’t she come to the Ball? Well, the answer could have been the truth – but, that wouldn’t end well. Clarke opted for something else. Something more up her mother’s alley.

“I’ve got a date tonight,” she lied. She could practically hear her mother’s eyebrows shoot up and off of her head.

“A date?”

“Yeah, a date.”

“Well you should bring him to the Ball – is it a him?” Of all the things Abby Griffin was not – a nice, trusting woman, a bad liar, the inadverant cause of Clarke’s father’s death – the one thing Clarke really liked was that she wasn’t homophobic. She hadn’t cared when Clarke came home with girls on day and boys the next. She hadn’t minded; treated them all with the same regal tone and careful eye.

“It is a him,” Clarke told her. “But I can’t bring him.”

“Why not?” Clarke swallowed – but she was trained to do this sort of thing. Lying, she was good at.

“Because I’m going to meet his family tonight – so I can’t just bail on him.” The conversation ended fairly quickly after that, with a ‘maybe next time’ and a ‘I love you, Clarke’ before the phone line went dead. Clarke breathed a breath of relief and relaxed against the wall, waiting for the Ball to start.

-

Bellamy didn’t exactly have an invitation – but he’d seen Griffin’s when he’d reluctantly went over with Octavia for a film night (actually, it was a  _horror_  film night, and he learnt that Griffin had some sick fascination with the blood and guts), and taken a few photos of what he’d have to present. It was simple to remake it after that.

He handed it to the man at the door (also dressed in a tux) and was ushered through into the hall.

Bellamy loved the museum. He knew it’s layout like the back of his hand – and he felt like that was a single thing he had over Griffin. She barely knew the place, and had pointed this out when talking to Murphy and Monty – his friends – about it. Although he doubted she hadn’t looked the place up and learnt the blue prints, he had been there most weekends for years. He was sure he had the one up, this time.

The hall was draped in blues and whites, and he guessed that his not-so-secret Conservative Mayor was keeping up appearances. The walls were adorned with artwork, and he noticed that the majority of displays were still in place, with ‘do not touch’ signs, or simply roped off altogether. There were already a lot of guests; dressed more formally than he had ever seen; laughing and talking, holding glasses of wine that looked more expensive than his house, being served on by people who had all probably been back ground checked.

He had considered getting a disguise as a waiter, but he knew that Jaha was a clever man. He knew he wouldn’t let just anyone wait on him. And yet, as he thought the words, one of the men, carrying a tray of appetisers, caught his eye.

Bellamy tried not to make it obvious as he walked over, before taking a piece of food off the tray. The waiter looked up, and a small smile hit his face. It was more like a grimace – but any emotion from Murphy was worth it, in his books.

“So what is this?” He asked, gesturing to the food. It was about the size of his little finger and he wondered if everyone rich ate like this – because, being poor, this felt like a mockery.

“Something with salmon, I think,” his friend replied with a shrug. “All I know is that I tried one and it’s not worth it.” Bellamy smiled before placing it delicately back on the tray where he’d found it. John Murphy gave him a knowing look for that.

“How did you not get caught?” He asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. A glint appeared in his friend’s eye – one that reeked of trouble.

“Remember when I offered you the chance of a clean slate?” He asked, in response. Bellamy nodded.

“With the files?”

“That’s the one.”

“And you did it?” Murphy nodded. About a year before hand, Murphy had been working tirelessly with their friend, Monty, to be able to delete all of his files – all jail time, murders and existence from the data base. He’d offered Bellamy the chance of it as well, but by doing so, he would be deleting any connection to his parents and Octavia. He felt safer knowing his information was out there, to be honest.

“Don’t worry,” Murphy said. “If you ever change your mind, I’ve still got the program for it. But, now, it creates identities as well as deletes them.” Bellamy looked shocked to say the least. He and Murphy had met when he was training to be a hit man, fresh out of school at eighteen. Murphy had been sixteen – and while not the most computer savvy (as he turned out to be), he was dangerous and taught the older man a lot. Murphy never became an assassin; but he became an agent for the same cooperation Bellamy found himself answering to. Murphy was just around for easy, quick missions and making explosives – he was adamant that he left his killing in the past.

They left each other after that, with an ‘I’ll think about it’ from Bellamy. He milled around, looking at the exhibits and even started a few conversations – mainly based on his knowledge of the ancient world. (If Bellamy hadn’t turned to killing people, he would’ve become a historian, without a doubt.) After a while, he circled back around to Murphy, who was now carrying a tray of wine.

“Is it worth it?” He asked in greeting. Murphy shrugged.

“Probably not – but the bottles are like two hundred quid each, so I would drink and not complain.” Bellamy nodded with a smile, lifting a glass from the tray.

“So what are you doing here tonight?” He asked, taking a sip. To Bellamy, it tasted identical to the three quid boxed wine he bought.

“Anonymous benefactor gave me ten grand to look after you,” he replied with the trace of a smile on his face. Bellamy raised his eyebrows. He knew that people did that sometimes – a back up, if you will. But he hadn’t expected Murphy to be that back up.

“You’re the contingency plan?” He asked. His friend nodded.

“Apparently so – but I also saw Miller, you know,  _milling_  around earlier,” Murphy almost smiled at his joke. “He was setting up this afternoon.” Suddenly, Bellamy was very suspicious. Nate Miller wasn’t an assassin, either. He was an agent, a little like Murphy – trained to get intel, not blood on his hands.

“I thought Griffin was the contingency, though,” he admitted. Now it was Murphy’s turn to look surprised.

“Griffin’s here?” Bellamy nodded.

“I think so. I saw her car outside – but I don’t know if she’s one of the guests or one of us.” Murphy shook his head.

“I haven’t seen her, and I’ve had to look at every rich a-hole in this place.”

“Even Jaha?” Bellamy asked. Murphy nodded.

“Yeah, but he’s never alone. Always in large groups.” Bellamy sighs, knowing that his more up front method may not pay off this time. Part of him was hoping Griffin was out there as a sniper, in case he couldn’t get the job done – but he wasn’t sure. He nodded his thanks to Murphy and went off in search of the Mayor.


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke had waited a long while before the party started to look back over the wall through the eye piece of her gun. She looked at each guest individually, either recognising them from endless banquets she’d been roped into at a young age, or drifting straight over them. She landed on Jaha quite a few times, but her vision was always blocked by one of the brackets in the window, or other people. She couldn’t kill him immediately – she needed more people to be around to witness it. She needed to get it done properly.

(Plus, someone had been banging on the door to the roof since she arrived, and she wondered when the building manager would get up there and unlock it. Either way, it was very distracting.)

She had paused though, about twenty minutes in, when she spotted Bellamy Blake.

Clarke racked her mind, trying to think of reasons for Blake to be there. She knew he wasn’t rich enough – or good enough friends with the town’s elite – to actually be invited. And, as an assassin, and not a historian at the museum, which she knew was his backup plan, he had no real reason to be there.

Unless – he was also being paid to kill.

Most of her wondered if he was after Jaha. He probably would’ve jumped at the offer to kill the man who made his life hell, and she considered letting him do it instead, for a while. She didn’t really want to kill him – he may be a drug lord of sorts, but he was his mother’s best friend, and ‘Uncle Theo’ to Clarke’s past. Her conscience was really beating her up over it.

But she wanted the money. She wanted the house and the trip to South America and Asia and all of Europe – and she was fairly sure that the money would be taken back, if someone else killed her target beforehand.

She only decided to phone him when she spotted Murphy, holding a tray of wine glasses, and then Miller, standing up on the balcony, on the second floor, wearing a suit and stepping back into the shadows.

“Blake,” she barked down the phone. She had a flash of realisation as she realised she got that from her mother.

“Griffin,” he replied easily. She could see him through her lens, wandering around the party with his hand in his pocket.

“What are you doing at the Ball?” She asked, annoyed. He seemed to exhale in triumph – although she didn’t know if she was imagining it.

“I thought you were here – but I haven’t seen you, and neither has Murphy.”

“Well I’ve seen you,” she shot back. “And him, and Miller.”

“Yeah, Murphy said he was at the party. But where are you?”

“Not in there, that’s for sure,” she replied. “I knew Jaha wouldn’t leave a crowd of people for a second – how are you supposed to do anything in there?”

“How did you know that was my mission?” He asked, avoiding Clarke’s originally question.

“Because it’s mine, and I just assumed,” she said. Bellamy walked out of sight and she sighed.

“Well I didn’t know he would be around so many people,” he admitted. From the phone, the sounds around him seemed to quieten. She guessed he was moving to a more secluded area. “But don’t you dare take this,” he warned.

“What?” She asked, annoyed. “Don’t kill the man I’ve been paid to kill? Why not?”

“Because he’s mine,” Blake replied, just as heated.

“Are Murphy and Miller there for the same thing?”

“No, Murphy says it’s intel – but I don’t know what about.” Clarke sighed, looking around the roof. The banging on the door had started again, and she was glad she’d left the key in, and placed a few bricks in front of the door – but it wouldn’t keep them out forever. “He also says he’s there to make sure I don’t die.” Clarke considered this for a moment.

“Did you get a name to see who paid you?”

“Of course not,” he replied.

“I bet whoever it was knew you’d go in, and I wouldn’t,” she muttered. She moved the aim of the gun, until it reached the balcony where Miller was previously standing. Now, Blake was there, looking across the Ball.

“Probably. But they also knew I’d kill him before you would.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she complained. “You have no chance.”

“ _I_  have no chance? You are a terrible shot,” he told her.

“Am not!” She called back. “You’re way worse than I am! That’s why you always go in, instead of being sensible and doing it from a distance.”

“Oh yeah, being sensible. You know what, you’re the most boring person I’ve ever met.”

“Take that back, ass hole,” she growled down the line.

“Not likely, Princess. You are – you’re so focused on being sensible, that you miss all of the fun.”

“I’m a fucking assassin – how can you say I’m not fun?”

“Oh yeah. No party like a murder party,” he drawled back. Clarke felt a lot of emotions in that second; annoyance, anger, hurt. But, overall, her gun was pointing at him, and she had the urge to pull the trigger. But she wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t going to kill someone and let Jaha get away – no, she would kill Blake later, when it was more convenient.

“Shut up,” she told him. “You’re not killing him, get that through your mind.” The line goes silent for a moment, and she can see him leaning over the balcony, seemingly searching.

“Shit,” he says quietly.

“What? Realised you’re a crap assassin?” She replied.

“No, Princess,” he told her. “Can you see him?” Clarke moved the rifle, searching for her target. But he had almost vanished. She passed over Murphy a few times, and Miller, too – now on the main floor with a glass of wine. They seemed to be looking around as well. She moved the angle to the stage, where she knew he would be at some point during the night. And then she looked away from the rifle, standing and looking down to the street, where a town car pulled out. “Princess?” Blake asked. The Mayor’s town car was driving away and Clarke was never more angry with herself.

“Shit,” she replied. “His car just pulled out down the road.”

-

It was later that night, as the four of them – Bellamy, Griffin, Murphy and Miller – sat in Bellamy’s living room, his sister sound asleep upstairs, discussing the Ball.

“You didn’t see him leave?” Miller asked Griffin, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“No,” she replied. “I was watching Blake because he was pissing me off.”

“So it was your mistake,” Bellamy mused.

“Excuse me. From that roof I can only see half of the hall – you three were in there, this is on you, too,” she retorted. Bellamy rolled his eyes, looking to Murphy. His friend shrugged in his armchair.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Murphy said. “He disappeared. I think he knew we were there.”

“But how did he know?” Bellamy asked. Griffin shrugged, but Miller spoke.

“Maybe because he didn’t recognise us?” He suggested. Griffin nodded in agreement at the idea.

“Yeah, he knows every person on that guest list. Two guys show up that he doesn’t recognise? He’s a suspicious guy.” Bellamy nodded, leaning back on his side of the sofa. To his right (his far, far right), Griffin took a sip of the coffee he’d made her. Miller sighed and Murphy (on his left) drummed his fingers on his knee. “Miller,” Griffin started, breaking the silence. “Why were you there?”

“I had instructions to keep you safe,” he replied with a smile. “But they were fairly irrelevant, considering you didn’t even step foot in the building.”

“I thought you were there for intel,” Bellamy mentioned, narrowing his eyes slightly. Miller shrugged.

“I got the intel this morning. It was just records of Griffin’s Mum – nothing huge. But fifteen thousand is a good price for little effort.” Murphy groaned.

“Is everyone getting paid more than me?” He asked. The other three in the room nodded and Bellamy smiled.

“You refuse to kill, remember?” He asked. “That sort of makes you less useful.”

“I don’t  _refuse_ ,” Murphy mumbled. “I just avoid it.” Miller snorted but didn’t say anything. The room grew silent. Bellamy looked around – these people were like him in a lot of ways. Sure, he didn’t want to admit that he was similar to Griffin – but he was. They both killed people and did illegal things at the drop of a hat – or the drop of a large cheque. They all enjoyed the thrill, he knew that. They weren’t as boring as the rest of the population.

He felt a little guilty for calling her just that – but he wasn’t going to say so.

“So what’s the plan?” Miller asked, breaking the silence. They looked at each other until Griffin spoke up.

“We kill Jaha,” she replied. Her face was set, determined. Bellamy wondered how much it was hurting her to kill Wells’ dad. It must be eating her up inside. “It’s what we’ve been paid for. Blake and I are going to do our jobs – we’ll decide who actually kills him later – and you two do what you’ve been paid for.”

“What, protecting your asses?” Murphy retorted. Griffin let it pass as a regular comment – not a snide remark.

“Exactly. You’ve been paid to keep us alive, and that’s what you’re going to do.  In the meantime, Blake and I are going to find Jaha and do what  _we’ve_  been paid to do.” The room sighed collectively, all collapsing back into their seats. Griffin took another sip of her coffee and Murphy fiddled with the knife he pulled from his leg.

“You can all stay here the night, if you want,” Bellamy offered, standing up. He picked up his jacket from where he left it on the arm chair, and looked across the room. The other three nodded. “I’ll get you some clothes to change into.” No one protested and he headed upstairs, pulling out t-shirts and shorts from his draws – enough for all three of them. He dumped them on the sofa when he got downstairs.

“Thanks,” Miller said – the only one to speak. Bellamy nodded.

“The sofa folds out,” he said in response. The others looked around at each other before Griffin stood up. She picked up a t-shirt and shorts and nodded in thanks.

“I’ll sleep in Octavia’s room,” she told them. They all murmured ‘night’ as she disappeared up the stairs. 

It took another five minutes before Bellamy was undressed and in bed. He was wiped. Sure, the benefactor didn’t give him the details on him killing Jaha that night – but he would have preferred it if he could have got it done. He didn’t want to stretch the mission out. He didn’t want the money to be taken back. He just wanted to keep his sister going and keep his conscience clear – but the latter hadn’t been relevant in years.

He stared at the ceiling, hearing snippets of Miller and Murphy arguing over the bed through the walls of the old house. He couldn't make out the words, but he understood the tone. They’d been friends for years – whether Murphy’s moments of being a jerk annoy him or not – and if Griffin had asked, he would’ve let her take his bed, and shared the fold out with the guys.

He remembered meeting all three of them clear as day. Miller, he’d met first. He knew him from the time he was fourteen – meeting in a Maths class he was put into half way through the year. Miller had always been smart – Bellamy had to work for it. They’d been paired together on their table and become friends. Bellamy hadn’t realised until much later, but he’d dropped his old, trouble-making friends after meeting Miller. Even though Miller made him better; nicer; smarter – he still turned out to be a killer. And while Nathan Miller – heralded as a government analyst and not an agent – had never killed a man, Bellamy found himself in a very different situation.

Their positions in the hierarchy of life had been marked out long before they met. And no matter how they’d changed after becoming friends, they would keep those positions until they died. He was sure of that.

He’d met Murphy next. He was two years younger than Bellamy, and when he was eighteen and found the cooperation that he still worked for – Grounders - Murphy was still in school. Murphy was a delinquent from a young age. He never told his motives, but Bellamy was fairly sure they had to do with his parents’ deaths and the foster homes he was passed around. When they met, Murphy was rigging a smoke bomb and Bellamy was wandering around the training centre on his first day. He’d already had the meetings and been put through hours of rigorous testing, and he would have to go back in only an hour. But Murphy – this kid with a sullen face and pale skin – intrigued him.

Murphy had taught him how to make a smoke bomb before he went back to training. He found it useful when they were presented with the components of one, two days later, and had to figure it out without a manual.

Although Murphy could be a pain, he was also a good guy, deep down. He was only ever not useful if killing was involved. Bellamy had searched him online after hearing the rumours, and clear enough, news articles popped up of a ten year old, taking out three uncles and an aunt after the deaths of his parents. He had pleaded guilty, saying that he was pushed to, after his relatives blamed him for the deaths of Miriam and John – his parents (and also the reason he went only by his last name long before he joined up).

Bellamy was definite, when he had to write down who he wanted as his backups – on missions with him if needed be, on his profile when buyers chose who they wanted to kill for them. He was definite of Murphy, and Murphy was definite of him. (They may have had a rough patch where they aimed guns at each other and threatened to shoot, but they moved past that.)

Griffin, however. She was a wild card for Bellamy.

Bellamy had been in training for six years when she joined. She’d done three years in the army before joining SAS for a year – something never done, until the required time had been completed, but bypassed on account of her mother’s meddling. (He remembered when Griffin was drunk one night, she admitted that her mother had stated that if she was going to be in the armed forces, she might as well be at the top of it. Abby Griffin had paid extraordinary amounts of money for her to be in SAS early. And then, to leave it early, too.) He was twenty four, working on training recruits and jetting off to different countries to earn his money. He never went for high profile kills or anything with too big a sum of money – they always spelled trouble.

At the time, Murphy had been working on a program more efficient in deleting identities with a friend called Monty, hoping to erase his past. Miller had been out on assignment – something about national security – but Bellamy had been at the base. He’d stood in line with the other high levels and watched the new recruits file in.

In front of him, blonde hair tied up, was Griffin. She looked strong, war-beaten, tired. But she looked as if she could take anyone in a fight; she could hold her own. That’s what he was looking for. There were only a few recruits; seeing as it was first announced as a legal job (with lots of testing before joining to weed out the weak) and then confirmed illegal after they’d been through too much to quit. Griffin didn’t know she was about to become an assassin, but Bellamy could tell that she’d be good at it.

He even liked the look of her.

Until she opened her mouth.

She was fine – she wasn’t boring, like he’d told her. But she was sensible. She was no-fuss. She was average. But she had a heart of steel, eyes that burned and a spirit that lifted others up. She was a good assassin, a good soldier, and a good friend. (Only, he hadn’t personally experienced the latter, because they were always fighting or avoiding one another.)

He liked her enough, sure. But he couldn’t see himself actually befriending her. To Bellamy, she was his sister’s friend, who he worked with. She was the girl who took a lot of his jobs, and the one who’d surprised everyone by being good with a sniper rifle but bad at hand to hand combat. She wasn’t a terrible aim. She was fantastic. But she couldn’t wrestle and she couldn’t punch someone and knock them out. She was good at standing back from the situation and making judgements from there; not being involved.

But she was hot.

So she and Bellamy had put aside their differences a couple times and gone at it on the sofa or in a cupboard around the centre.

Bellamy sighed into the darkness, aware that he was lying to even himself, and shut his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

When Clarke woke up the next morning, she woke with the beaming face of a beautiful brunette, right in front of hers. She jumped back in shock, as Octavia laughed, before settling back into the bed.

“How long have you been waiting for me to wake up, so you could do that?” Clarke asked as she shut her eyes again, yawning.

“A while,” Octavia admitted. “How long have you been in my bed?”

“A while,” Clarke replied. She lifted her hand to rub the sleep away from her eyes, looking back to her friend. Octavia was important to her for all sorts of reasons – petty ones, like Clarke’s happiness at getting to call someone by their first name for once, to the important ones, like Octavia’s unwavering support, when she has to go out and hurt people for a living.

“Seriously, why are you in my bed?” Octavia asked. She wasn’t annoyed, Clarke knew that. Octavia had a smile still on her face as they lay, facing each other.

“Because I got back super late, and I needed somewhere to crash,” Clarke explained.

“The sofa folds out,” her friend reminds her. Clarke nodded.

“Yeah, but Murphy and Miller have that.” Octavia snorted as she rolled onto her back.

“What the hell happened last night?” She asked, staring at the ceiling. Clarke rolled onto her back, looking at the posters Octavia blue tacked to the ceiling, after the walls were filled up. The one directly above her was of Katniss Everdeen, from  _The Hunger Games_. Clarke knew Octavia had a soft spot for strong female characters – it was one of the first things they bonded over.

“That’s classified,” Clarke replied, a smile on her face and in her voice.

“Come on, Clarke,” Octavia urged. When Bellamy realised that his sister and Clarke were becoming friends, he took her aside. He explained to her that while she may tell her friends whatever the hell she wants about her missions, Octavia was off limits. He didn’t want to put her life in any form of danger. She may dislike the guy – but she respected that. That rule always affected her answers.

“Your brother and I were assigned to the same case,” she said at last. “Didn’t go very well, and we all ended up here to regroup.” Being vague is always her best bet – and Octavia, knowing the rule but not always wanting to accept it, was fairly curious for more answers.

“Why were Murphy and Miller there?”

“They were assigned to it as well,” she explained.

“Must be some ass hole if four people get assigned to kill him,” she mused.

“Must be,” Clarke replies.

Ten minutes later, the two of them are in the kitchen, making coffee. She’s changed Blake’s shorts in favour of the jeans she was wearing the night before, but she’s still wearing his t-shirt. She can’t exactly give a reason to why. She poured milk into one coffee, and took it, along with one of the black ones, into the living room.

Murphy and Miller are just waking up, sprawled across the sofa bed. She smiled at the pillow barrier put up between them – but it didn't stop Murphy’s legs from being kicked over to Miller’s side of the bed.

“Morning,” she greeted, holding out the cups of coffee. The two sat up, rubbing their faces as she passed over the drinks. “White for Miller, black for Murphy,” she said as they took the mugs. “How ironic.” Murphy snorted into his mug and Miller smiled faintly – she would’ve gotten a better reception if it wasn’t eight in the morning.

As she walked back into the kitchen and took the mug Octavia was holding out for her, Blake came bounding down the stairs. He stopped short at the sight of other people in his home – Clarke guessed he’d forgotten they were staying over. He headed into the kitchen after she left, where Octavia had his morning coffee ready and waiting. Then he followed into the living room.

Clarke settled herself at the end of the sofa bed, crossing her legs opposite Miller. Blake sat down next to her, opposite Murphy. She looked up to see Octavia standing in the doorway, watching them with an unreadable expression.

“Sorry O,” Blake said to his sister. “Important business – confidential and all that.” Octavia pouted and walked over to the sofa, leaning on the back of it in between the boys.

“Can’t I help?” She pleaded. “I’d be really good. I’m sure of it.” Blake sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re not trained, and you’re not a killer,” he said. Clarke could hear the sadness in his voice.

“Well whose fault is that?” Octavia asked, straightening. “I asked to go to the training centre – I asked to be one of you guys, but  _someone_  wouldn’t let me.” Blake sighed again, shaking his head and drinking some of his coffee. Eventually, he spoke.

“O, I can’t let you be one of us – it’s too dangerous. I wouldn’t let you because you’ve got actual prospects,” he explained.

“Hey!” Murphy and Miller chimed in. Clarke lightly hit his arm.

“We had prospects,” she muttered. Blake rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, but  _you_  wanted to go to the army, instead of art school,” he said, nodding to Clarke. “ _You_  were going to be a cop, but you failed the entrance exam three times.” He nodded to Miller. “And  _you_  have constant lingering doubt of yourself and a criminal record.” Murphy sneered in response to Blake nodding to him. “But  _you_ , O, are intelligent, have a degree, a boyfriend and a future that doesn’t involve killing people.” The room was silent for a second.

“I’ll be in my room,” Octavia muttered before turning and walking up the stairs. Blake sighed in the silence.

“No offence,” he said. Clarke rolled her eyes and sat in silence as Miller started laying out the plans he’d thought up to get Jaha. Murphy would be able to hack into the cameras at his home, and find out if he returned the night before, while Blake and Clarke would go and get more options, for taking him out. Miller would ask around the clean-up crew of the Ball, which would be going in to tidy up in an hour’s time.

No one objected, so they got up and left.

-  
Bellamy wasn't fond of the idea of working in a group. Sure, he and Murphy got along well - and they were good in a team. And Miller and he had been practically best friends since they were fourteen. But Griffin was practically a stranger to him (OK – so he'd seen Griffin naked, but they didn't get along well). He sighed as he pushed open the door of the shooting range.

There was only one in town, but it was always a good place to train as a civilian and meet some good shots. That was where he met Finn.

Finn Collins had worked there for as long as Bellamy could remember. He wasn't in any sort of military organisation, and he wasn't actually very good with a gun. But his parents owned the place and gave it to him for his eighteenth, so Bellamy got to know the guy.

They didn't get along very well. The two of them seemed to clash heads more than work together, but neither minded - because shooting was a thing you did by yourself. And as long as Finn got his money and Bellamy got his rounds, neither minded about their opposing views on most subjects.

That day, as Bellamy headed over to the counter, Finn was tapping his fingers on the glass. They showed each other somewhat of a smile when approaching, but nothing else happened. They weren't friends and they both knew it.

"It's not your usual day," Finn pointed out as he leaned on the counter. Bellamy sighed, shaking his head. He came in at least once a week - usually on a Wednesday morning. But this week, he had to be in for business. Bellamy didn't like why he was there - he didn't like what he was going to ask.

"I know, but I'm not here to shoot," he replied. Finn looked surprised and stood up straighter.

"Well, what can I do you for?" Bellamy looked around the store. Hung up on the walls were the signed targets of the best shots the range had had. Bellamy's was up there, somewhere, and he was fairly sure that a couple belonged to Griffin, too. The targets were up partly to brag about the skills of their customers, but also so potential clients could come in and ask who they were. Annoyingly, this was why Bellamy was here.

"Could I look at the tens?" He asked. Finn raised his eyebrows but nodded anyway, and excused himself to collect the best. The system was ranked; you got a zero for missing the target, and a one for hitting it on the white. Then, the closer you got to the centre, you got points. The tens were the targets with all ten shots on the bullseye. Those were the only people anyone would want to hire.

When Finn came back, he had a pile of targets in his hands. He laid them out on the counter, glancing at Bellamy's expression as he looked through them all. Each one was signed by the shooter, and he knew that their contact information would be in the office. He just had to choose someone.

Admittedly, it wasn't his idea to get another shooter. But Griffin's inability to see Jaha leave the building meant that she could have a blind spot - and it was best to have another sniper who could see what she couldn't. This meant that while she was out, trying to find a mechanic or engineer to make their weapons better (Murphy had phoned and said that he had called in a favour with his friend, Monty, and there was a mark on Jaha's bank record that may prove that he has armed guards everywhere he goes, now), Bellamy had to recruit another shooter.

He eyed the targets before looking to Finn. "You've met all of these people?" He asked, drumming his fingers on the counter.

"Yeah, every one of them," he agreed.

"And who do you think was the best?" Finn raised his eyebrows.

"They all have tens, Bellamy," he replied, as if this fact escaped him.

"Yeah, but who was best with loading, with instructions? Who was most comfortable with the gun? Who was the best?" Bellamy found himself moving closer to Finn as he spoke, so he moved back, stepping away from the counter. Finn thought for the moment, before shuffling through his targets.

"This one," he announced. "He was skittish at first, and a load of his shots were flukes, but he kept coming back every week - he's probably the best we've had here in a while." Bellamy nodded, looking at the single whole in the centre of the target - the bullet had gone through the same hole each time, dead in the centre of the bullseye. Then he looked to the signature; large and obnoxious. He nodded again.

"Can I have his information?" He asked.

"You looking to recruit, really?" Finn asked, piling the rest of the targets. "I was sure you worked alone." Bellamy sighed.

"For now, I'm in a team," he admitted. "Might as well have another shooter."

 

Clarke returned in the early evening, finally having found a mechanic to look at their weapons. She was back before half of the group; Blake having had to go to the shooting range to ask for a recruit, and Miller calling at noon to say that he's got to take a shipment back to Jaha's mansion with a few members of the clean-up crew, and he'll find out what he can. So when Clarke returned, Murphy was sitting on the sofa (now a sofa again, and not a bed) with his laptop on his lap.

Clarke sat down next to him.

"How'd it go?" He asked, though his tone didn't sound like he cared. Clarke shrugged.

"Alright. This woman said she would take our weapons for the night and give them a go," she said.

"You already took them?"

"Yeah, a couple of hours ago. She was excited actually," Clarke leaned back into the sofa and glanced at the screen of the laptop. He was playing a game, shooting zombies. "She said she'd been working on some technology for some time - knock out bullets or something, I don't know. She wanted to try it out."

"How much is this costing?" He asked, and Clarke could have sworn that he wanted to ask something else (she assumed that he was interested in the idea of knock out bullets, instead of ones that could kill). Clarke shrugged again.

"Doesn't matter. I'm getting a hundred thousand; I'll find something to spare." Murphy nodded, swearing under his breath as he died. Only then did he look at her.

Clarke had always been curious about John Murphy - sure, she'd googled his name and found the articles about the death of his family. Sure, she'd searched the records at the base and found a list of bombs and weapons he could create from general rubbish - but she didn't know him that well.

Murphy had always seemed like a fighter, to her. He seemed like he would be good with a gun, and that working as an agent would be a good job for him - but he didn't do it. She knew he wasn't as computer savvy as people said; he had texted and said that it was Monty who had got the bank records, not him. And the only way he could access the cameras was because Monty had done so before, on his laptop, so he still had the codes. She couldn't figure him out.

He was snarky and rude, and barely paid attention half of the time, but he could construct a bomb within minutes and was known as a cold blooded killer.

There was just too much to him for her to figure out.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Murphy said, breaking Clarke out of her thoughts. She turned abruptly, suddenly aware that she'd been looking at him as she thought, and neither of them spoke for a while.

Miller returned next, in fresh clothes, saying that he had been around Jaha's mansion as the clean up crew placed the tables and chairs back in his garage ("he had like four cars -  _four_. He's only one person - what does he need  _four_ for?"). And apparently, Jaha had left town the night before. The entire place was deserted; every member of staff that worked in that house every day had disappeared.

Murphy backed this up, pulling up camera footage of them all leaving the night before, and not returning in the morning. But the footage had no sound, and neither of them could lip read particularly well, so no one knew where they had gone. The only other thing Miller had found was Jaha's son's room, still set up as if Wells still lived there (Clarke had to swallow her feelings as Miller spoke), but with a difference of his desk drawer being filled with books.

"Books?" Clarke asked. Miller nodded, pulling his backpack onto his lip and pulling them out. He threw them over, and Clarke thumbed through the pages - scrawled lines of charitable donations and people who had given them.

"His accounts," Murphy said quietly.

"And every person who'd given him the money," Miller agreed.

"What are we supposed to do with this?" Murphy asked as he restarted his game - he'd been neglecting it since Miller arrived.

"We can't go to the police," Clarke said.

"Obviously."

"But maybe afterwards, we can send these to the benefactors or the officers at Grounders and see what they think," she explained.

"But for now?" Miller asked.

"Now we see if any of these places will show us where Jaha is. Murphy, get Monty on the phone and see if he can track Jaha's face - we have the technology that the police use, and the access to the security cameras. If he's somewhere on this planet, we'll be able to find him."

"Aye aye, captain," Murphy said, pausing his game and pulling out his phone.

"Miller, you start looking through these, and find anything that could be important." He nodded and looked up as Clarke stood.

"What are you going to do?"

"Put the kettle on."


	4. Chapter 4

Bellamy was tired and stressed and frankly, annoyed, by the time he came home. All he wanted to do was go inside, put his feet up, and watch the documentary he'd saved about the death of the Egyptian Pharaoh, Tutankhamen. But no, he had two best friends hot on his trail as he got out of his truck and walked up the drive, and he was very aware of the three people, inside his house, working on tracking down a drug lord.

The world wouldn't give him a break.

He opened the door, which lead straight into the living room and sighed. The coffee table had been pushed up to the TV, and Miller and Griffin were on the floor, flicking through large bound books, making notes on paper next to them. Murphy was stretched out across the sofa, tapping at his laptop and acting as if he was doing something important - even though Bellamy could guess that he was probably playing that zombie game he'd gotten into recently.

There were mugs situated across the room, some empty, some half full, as if they'd drunk some of their coffee and forgotten where they'd put it and made some more. It was only nine o clock in the evening, and he had no idea how they had done this in the few hours since they would have gotten back.

Sighing, he walked in.

"Hey Murphy," one of the guys said from behind him. Murphy looked up and nodded - not even cracking a smile as Monty passed Bellamy and moved to sit on the sofa. Murphy swung his legs to the floor and immediately started talking. Griffin continued to work, but Bellamy was very aware that Miller had stopped to watch Monty for a moment, before looking back to his books.

He and Jasper, the recruit, sat on the floor opposite the others as they were debriefed of the day's events. Jasper listened carefully and asked questions at regular intervals, to make sure he understood perfectly. Bellamy sat in silence.

Monty Green had been invited by Murphy to help track Jaha - seeing as Murphy's skill set didn't reach that far. (It mainly involved explosives, if Bellamy was completely honest, but he knew Murphy was smart in his own way, and if he didn't speak, people tended not to notice him - meaning he heard a lot more than he should have.)

(Such as Bellamy and Griffin going at it in a cupboard, once.)

(Murphy made jokes about it for the next month.)

Jasper Jordan, however, was a perfect shot. He and Monty lived together, and after having a long conversation with the former, and him agreeing to join (he had nothing better to do, and he had briefly worked for the government, but hadn't been cleared to work as an operative) Bellamy had made a move to leave. Just as they were getting out the door, Monty had called them back and insisted that Murphy had requested his help.

The main issue with this was that the two of them did not stop talking through out the entire journey, meaning that Bellamy couldn't help but have one of the worst headaches of his life.

As Miller and Griffin handed Monty the locations and identities they'd found in the account books (the ones that were repeated a lot from multiple 'donations') Miller struck up a conversation with Jasper, and Griffin turned to Bellamy.

In the moments before she spoke, Bellamy had a lot of thoughts: he liked the way her hair was tied up, with loose bits floating - he liked seeing her face. Her eyes were particularly bright. She was wearing that t-shirt the last time they fucked.

"The mechanic seemed great," she said. Bellamy was a little disappointed that she didn't bring up the last time. But he also knew she wouldn't.

"Yeah?" He asked. She nodded.

"She said she knew you, too." Bellamy raised his eyebrows and stretched out a hand, picking up his cup of coffee and bringing it to his lips. "Yeah, Raven Reyes?" Bellamy choked on his coffee and Griffin smiled, as if she wanted this to be the result of the conversation. "You remember her, then." He nodded, pretending to think about it as he placed down his mug.

"Yeah, yeah I think I can picture the face," he agreed.

"I bet you can picture a lot more than her face," she pointed out. Bellamy sighed.

"She told you?" Griffin nodded.

"Yeah - said it was after her and her boyfriend broke up." He nodded. Raven Reyes had dated Finn Collins a couple years before, and he had met her when she was in the shooting range one afternoon. They had become friends - or as close as you could be when only seeing each other once a week - and after Finn had cheated on her, she had gotten in contact. The sex they had had been purely of the rebound type, with no feelings and no expectations. He didn't regret it, exactly - but it wasn't one of his favourite memories.

Bellamy hummed non-committally in the end, opting that no answer was better than a wrong one. He didn't really understand why he cared what Griffin thought - but he still found himself doing so. Bellamy blamed it on the sex they had. He found it difficult to find someone who was as good as her, and he decided that making her mad might stop it all together - even if it was already a rare occurrence.

She just nodded and looked away for a moment. Silence enveloped the two of them and Bellamy noticed that the others in the room were still talking.

After a while, they all decided that sleep would be the best route to take, and Bellamy watched as Griffin walked up the stairs and went back into Octavia's room (who had huffed when she came in to discover so many people involved with a top secret mission that she couldn't even help with, and then stomped up the stairs). Bellamy looked at the other four, and told them that they would all be sharing the sofa bed - which elicited a groan from the lot of them. But it was past one AM and he was both Monty and Jasper's ride, so they couldn't leave.

Eventually, though - and he wasn't sure how it had happened - Murphy had persuaded him to letting him sleep in his room, and the three others occupied the sofa bed. His sleep was surprisingly peaceful, even if when he woke up, Murphy's legs were draped across his.

-

When Clarke had entered Octavia's room that night, she had been surprised. But only because the mere concept of Octavia begging for anything was beyond her. Even so, the younger Blake had been prepared for her arrival, and was already on her knees, hands clasped in front of her and the best puppy dog face she could muster. Clarke had sighed and walked past her, sliding into the bed on the same side as the night before. Octavia had joined her soon after.

"Why can't I be one of you guys?" She asked into the darkness of her bedroom, a little while later.

"Because Blake said so," she replied.

"Bell doesn't control me."

"He does if you live under his roof," Clarke said.

"Clarke, I'm twenty-one years old - I have a boyfriend, a degree and a car. I should be able to decide what I want to do with my life." Clarke sighed. She knew Octavia was right, but she had no right to say so. Blake did what he did to protect her, to keep her safe - and she respected that.

"You have to talk to Blake about it," she ended up saying.

"I have, time and time again."

"Well, maybe you should find a field of interest," Clarke suggested. "Blake's afraid that you're going to become the same type of agent as him. I'm a sharp shooter, mainly - I rarely go in to the room and actually see the expression on a target's face. I'm usually a lot safer than him." She realised, as she spoke, that Octavia was listening and considering every single word. Clarke only recognised at that moment how important this was to the younger Blake. "He's worried that you'll be a close-up agent - but if you put in the research to show that you want to do something else, I don't see why he won't agree."

They were both silent for a while, before Octavia spoke again.

"What about the guys downstairs?" She asked. "What do they do?"

"Miller is a general agent," Clarke explained. "If he's killed anyone, we don't know about it - just goes on undercover ops for intel or something else. I doubt he even carries a gun. Jasper isn't an agent, but he's a good shot - otherwise, I'm fairly sure he sells weed to pay his way through university, but I don't really want to ask about that." Octavia nodded in the darkness. "Monty is in the tech division - hacking, computing, all of that sort of thing. And Murphy is an explosives specialist. They wanted him to do the same thing as Blake, or Miller at the least - but he has a bad past, and is still working through it."

"His family?"

"Does everyone know about that?" Clarke felt surprised.

"Yeah - when Bell told me the guy's name I thought I'd search him."

"Well, he's trying to escape that past, I think. Although a lot of me thinks he'll kill again - he's been trained to do it. Either way, he makes a fantastic bomb."

-

Bellamy woke up to Murphy nudging him. He groaned and rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow.

"Get up, ass hole," Murphy said, sleep still slurring his voice. "Your sister has been yelling forever and I think she'll actually come and get us."

"Let her," Bellamy murmured into the duvet.

"No, she said she has water." Bellamy sighed and forced himself out of bed, following Murphy down the stairs and into the kitchen. Like the day before, Griffin and Octavia had made coffee, and they were greeted with two steaming mugs. Bellamy gripped it like it was his life line and sighed as the drink made its way down his throat.

He shuffled into the living room and curled up on the far armchair, the only available seat, and looked around at the others. They were all in the same clothes as the day before, and the bed had been retracted into the sofa, which the three men who'd been sleeping on it didn't look very happy about.

Octavia was awake and bright though, and Bellamy couldn't find the energy to tell her to leave - that this was confidential. Besides, a little intel couldn't hurt, right?

Octavia was sat on the sofa as Griffin stood, clasping her coffee and sighing.

"Monty's camera alerts went off during the night," she announced. The coffee table had been moved back into the middle of the room, where a laptop was placed. Griffin hit the space bar and the screen lit up. Immediately, camera footage started playing, of two men in suits walking through the house. The cameras flicked over as the men walked through the building, following the movement until they reached Wells' room. There, they went straight to the desk and pulled out the door. You could practically hear them swearing as they panicked, searching through every part of the desk before storming out.

"Whoops," Miller said, sleep laced in his voice. The footage started again, but no one watched it any more.

"Did you guys get anything from the books?" Murphy asked after a moment from the opposite armchair. Monty and Miller nodded, while Griffin shut the laptop and sat down on the floor.

"Yeah," Monty said. "The men from the cameras were tracked back to the airport, and they got on a flight-"

"To Cuba?" Griffin asked. Monty nodded.

"Yeah, exactly where we thought they'd be. Cuba had the most money routes in the end and I looked Jaha up, and he has a home there."

"Yeah, I had the one next door," Griffin said quietly. Bellamy raised his eyebrows and watched her shrug. "It was a holiday home - we haven't been there since Dad died, but I don't think we sold it." The room went quiet for a moment.

"Are we going to Cuba?" Octavia asked suddenly, a smile on her face. Bellamy sighed.

"You aren't. The rest of us are." Octavia's smile immediately dropped.

"Why not?"

"Because it's a mission, O," he told her. "It's dangerous."

"So? I can handle myself, can't I?" Bellamy just sighed again. He watched as Octavia met Griffin's eyes before looking back to him. "What if I wasn't an agent? Could I join up?" Bellamy was, automatically, taken aback.

"What?" He asked.

"What if I wasn't an agent? You're afraid of me going out there in case my job is like yours, and I get killed. But what if I do what Nate does?"

"Nate?" Bellamy asked. Miller lifted his hand up, weakly.

"Me," he added. Bellamy looked from Miller to Octavia, his mind registering the fact that he never called Miller by his first name probably wasn't top priority. But Octavia kept talking.

"And what if I go and do tech? Or become a bomb specialist like Murphy? Why can't I join, Bell?" Bellamy was confused and shocked and afraid, all rolled into one. His emotions really were jumbled, and he didn't know where to look. He entirely assumed that Griffin had been the one to explain this to Octavia, and he wasn't amused by that. Even so, he sighed and stood up. He held out his hand and moved forward to grab his sister's, then he pulled her in the direction of the stairs and felt relieved that she didn't shrug him off.

Once in her room, they turned to each other.

"O-" he started, immediately cut off by Octavia.

"Bell, please," she insisted. He realised that it had been three years since Octavia could have joined the cooperation. Grounders would accept applicants from eighteen and up, only making exceptions for important cases - like Murphy's. It had been three years of putting her off, hoping she'd decide against it by herself. He knew she wouldn't. He knew he'd have to tell her the truth at some point. He just really didn't want this to be that point.

"O, you know I love you, right?" His sister nodded, and he felt slightly better. Not much, but slightly. "And you know that everything I do is to keep you safe?"

"I know, but you have to let me do this. You can't keep me safe forever." Bellamy sighed.

"I know that, O. But I like to think that I can. It's been us against the world for so much of our lives, I just really don't want to lose you. I can't take the world on my own." Octavia's smile was sad as she gripped his hand.

"I'm not going anywhere, Bell - you know that." They were silent for a moment, studying each other. Bellamy hadn't known when exactly, but Octavia had turned into a beautiful young woman. Her jaw line, her cheek bones, her skin tone - everything about her was grown up, mature and beautiful. He hadn't been surprised that she'd gotten a beast of a boyfriend - who spoke softly and hung on her every word. He didn't like it when he realised she wasn't the little girl he remembered, but he loved all of Octavia - even the newer version of her.

"You can join Grounders," he ended up saying quietly. His sister's face broke out into a grin; she emitted a high pitched squeal before bouncing up and down a little. "But - _But_ ," he said, breaking her party for one. She stopped bouncing but the grin stayed. "You can't be an agent like me. You can be a sniper, bomb maker - anything like that. But if you're actually going in and getting hurt, I won't allow it." He noticed that Octavia didn't even mind, she just grinned and hugged her older brother for all it was worth. He held her close and spun the two of them around before holding her at an arm's length.

"Does this mean I can come to Cuba?" She asked. Bellamy sighed. Whether she was an agent or not, he knew she was coming to Cuba. He would probably just leave her at the resort with Monty.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the next evening that the seven of them were on the (extraordinarily priced) flight to Cuba. Clarke sat in between Miller and Jasper, and yet somehow managed to get some sleep - even though Jasper could talk for England. When they landed, they went straight to the resort where Monty set up his equipment and started scanning the island for Jaha and his men.

Meanwhile, Clarke was sitting on her bed - the one she would be sharing with Octavia - considering too many things at once. For starters, who would kill Jaha? She really didn't want to be the one to do it, even if she hadn't told anyone. Thelonious Jaha was her godfather; he gave her her best friend and countless nights, running through his back garden as he turned on the sprinklers and ignored Clarke's mother's annoyance. Thelonious Jaha may have been a criminal - but he was family first, and she really didn't want to be the one to kill him.

Even so, could she let Blake do it? Would she lose her payment, or was the benefactor happy as long as Jaha didn't come out alive? She knew it would be either her or Blake - none of the others were killers, and Jasper was there for back up and emergencies - but anyone could tell he didn't want to be the one to shoot the drug lord.

Afterwards, she considered Blake. Sure, Bellamy Blake and Clarke had a rough time together. They didn't always get along, and they were more civil than friends - but she considered this a win. Over the past five years, they had grown a lot - they used to communicate through arguments on petty subjects, but they could hold a conversation, now. More over, they could work together.

And she would be lying if she said Blake wasn't attractive. Of course he was. She wouldn't have hooked up with him if he wasn't - but she was certain she had no feelings for him. At least, that's what she told herself any time her gaze lingered slightly too long, or she found herself a little too invested in him and his life.

Bellamy Blake was older than her; he was taller than her - but most importantly, he was more annoying than her. And Clarke really hoped that she wouldn't have to get used to that.

By the time she was called back in, she had most of her thoughts in order - apart from the stray images of Blake on top of her, or below her, or holding her- she swallowed them away and looked around the living room.

The hotel room was large - with four bedrooms and a living room in the centre. To her right, there were screen doors, opening up to a balcony that overlooked the ocean. The room had been expensive (Blake had glowered at the prices on the laptop, and Monty had reminded him that they were booking  _a day before_ \- s _o shut the fuck up and let me press 'book'_ ) and nicely decorated. Clarke was aware that everything looked breakable, and she didn't want to be the first one to smash something.

She moved to sit on the arm of the sofa, looking over Murphy and Monty's shoulders at the layout of laptops.

"So, Jaha hasn't been caught on camera in a day or so," Monty was saying when Clarke began to pay attention. "But the men who were in his house were spotted only a few hours ago, going into this building, here."

"Yeah, that's his holiday home," Clarke said, sitting forward and squinting at the screen to get a better look.

"So you know the ways in?" Miller asked from an armchair on her right. She sat back and thought it over for a moment before nodding.

"It's the exact layout of my family's, next door," she agreed. "There's about four entrances we could use, if I remember rightly."

-

Bellamy sighed, as he walked down the road beside Murphy. Cuba was brighter and warmer than anywhere he'd been before, and his naturally dark skin felt like it was burning. He smiled inwardly at his friend's pale complexion, next to him. The plan had been laid out over four hours, and Bellamy was just happy to be moving; to be going in. Admittedly, it meant that he and Griffin would have to work together, and he would actually have to consider the thought of 'who will kill Jaha', but he didn't mind too much.

If worse came to worse, Jasper would be nearby with the quick shot. He knew that Griffin's family had been close to Jaha's, so he was sure she would be having some qualms over killing him. He didn't mind, really - but now his sister was nearby, he was less sure.

He cursed himself, inside his head. Octavia was in the resort with Monty, who was capable with a gun. She would be fine. (He told himself this three times as he walked alongside Murphy.)

They met Miller inside a coffee shop a few minutes later. It was situated a road away from Jaha's home, and felt like a decent place to meet up - try to look casual, at least. Murphy ordered for them (Bellamy didn't even want to try speaking another language he was unfamiliar with) and joined them a few minutes later. Bellamy stared at the liquid in the mug before looking at his friend.

"What the hell is this?" He asked. Murphy shrugged.

"Either coffee or hot chocolate," he replied absently. "I don't know. I don't speak the language, what did you expect?" Bellamy shrugged and didn't reply. Instead, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a tentative sip before coughing and forcing the liquid down his throat. He slipped the mug back onto the table and winced at the taste.

"Not good?" Miller asked.

"Not even sure that's legal," he replied tersely. Murphy didn't touch his drink. They sat for a while, talking about the weather, the people, the drinks, their friends (“why don't we call Monty by his last name?" Miller had asked into the tension-filled conversation.) - until Griffin walked in and tapped Bellamy on the shoulder. He smiled at the sight of her - telling himself it was because of plan; the roles they were supposed to be playing, not because he was happy to see her. (Which he wasn't. _He_ _wasn't_.)

They stood up and said good bye to Miller and Murphy, before heading out of the shop. This was the moment the plan started. Everything from then onwards had been planned. Bellamy hated plans, but he wouldn't divert from it. He was sure.

In the same spirit, he took Griffin's hand and swung it between them, smiling. They spoke for a while, adding onto the act as they reached the street Jaha was staying on. Then, they walked up to the house next door.

The houses along the road were all identical, both sides of the street. They were large, boxy affairs, with painted white walls and light brown roofing. They had large, white paned windows, each with a circular one in the centre on the second floor. As they approached the large, wooden door, neither of them spared a glance for Jaha's house, and Griffin leaned down and slid a small rock out from behind the bench, on the porch. Underneath lied the house key.

Once inside, they stopped smiling as much and went into the kitchen, at the back of the house. Inside his head, he checked his weapons. They had packed before they left; Griffin annoyingly uncomfortable with the amount of guns she had to carry when actually going into a scene, instead of shooting from the outside. Even so, he had a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and a small one on the inside of his left boot. He had blades, inside his right boot, on his left calf and a penknife in his pocket. There were smaller spikes of metal hidden throughout his body, and his cyanide pill, embedded in the rippable fabric of the collar of his t-shirt - for desperate situations.

Bellamy was silently impressed with Griffin's holiday home. Moments like this, when he remembered that she came from money, that she had power and a social standard - he questioned why she had ever gone into assassination. But Clarke made him stop thinking when she nodded at him and strode purposefully to the back door.

He followed, remembering that Jasper was already set up in the house behind Jaha's with the perfect view of the back garden, and every room that faced him. He was aware of the cameras in the Griffin's house being monitored by Monty and Octavia and that Miller and Murphy would be walking by in a matter of minutes.

The two of them walked out into the brightness, and Griffin beamed at him, bringing back the act.

"And this is the garden," she announced, smiling. Bellamy was already surprised that the holiday home didn't overlook the beach, like many would, but he also knew that there was a path at the end of it, that could be reached by a gate, that was a two minute walk from the sea.

"It's nice," he smiled, looking around. Then, he turned to the Jaha home, looking it up and down. Even from the back, the houses were replicas of each other. "Do you know who lives either side of you?" He asked, hoping his nonchalance was okay.

"Yeah," she replied – her nonchalance was terrible, he noted. "That side houses the Sinclairs - this old couple who bought the home like twenty years ago," she says, brushing it off and shrugging. "I can't remember seeing them in years though. And that side is the Jahas."

"Like the Mayor?" He asked. She nodded, smiling still.

"Yeah, I told you that me and Wells were friends." He nodded, hoping his acting wasn't as bad as hers.

"Yeah - but I didn't know you went on holiday with them." Griffin just laughed.

"Of course we did, Bell," she said. Bellamy froze for a moment at the sound of his nickname. The only times she'd ever called him by that was when they were having sex. And they definitely weren't now. But he knew it was part of the act - he knew that people who are dating don't call each other by their last names. His pause was only a second long, and he turned back to Griffin, nodding.

"Are they there now?" He asked, wandering over to the fence.

"I don't know," she replied. "The Mayor's Ball was only a few days ago, so I don't imagine he would be here." He nodded. Griffin had told him that she'd used the excuse of meeting a boyfriend's parents as the reason why she didn't come to the Ball. He had snorted, questioning in his mind whether she had a boyfriend or not, even though he'd never seen her with one.

He looked through the windows of the Jaha house and paused before turning back to Griffin.

" _Princess_ ," he started slowly. "Do you see that?" She wandered up beside him, and he wondered if she had the same effect of him calling her by her nickname as he did before. She didn't pause though, so he doubted it.

"Yeah," she said slowly, staring at the windows. Through the glass door that lead to the back garden, he could see a man in a suit, standing at attention. They both knew that the theatrics of pretending to be a couple, even then in the back garden were necessary - only for the reasons of Jaha watching them, as they were watching him.

"Should we go and see what's happening?" He asked. "I mean, we'll be staying here for a while, and if there are new neighbours..." Bellamy trailed off and looked to his fake girlfriend. She nodded and took his hand, leading him down the side of the house and over towards the Jaha's. Bellamy was very aware of Miller and Murphy, who were turning the corner down the road. He paid them no attention, though, and followed Griffin up to the front door.

There, she knocked on it a few times. When no one answered, she went again, pressing the doorbell too, this time. Eventually, the door opened to reveal a man in a suit - not either of the ones from the footage.

"What?" He demanded.

"Hi, my name's Clarke, and me and my boyfriend Bellamy are staying next door," Griffin said with a bright smile and an innocent look on her face. "I knew the family who stayed here – the Jahas? Actually, maybe they still do? But we're here to say hello, anyway." The man in the door way scowled, and Bellamy briefly wondered how hot it must be in that suit - although he couldn't talk much, because he was wearing jeans and sweating through them.

The man didn't reply immediately, but looked back into the house for help. Then, he turned back to the strangers on the doorstep and nodded, opening the door wider. As they followed him inside, and shut the door behind them, Bellamy also considered Jaha not knowing what Clarke did for a living - if her own mother didn't know, he doubted Thelonious Jaha did.

The house was dark, even though there were people inside. The layout was identical to Griffin's, and he found himself tightening his grip on her hand. While the furniture and the decor differed from the Griffin's, he noticed things that seemed very similar. The bowl of fruit on the living room table, for example, was the same in both houses. As well as the brand of television and the colour of the walls.

As they walked, Bellamy noticed a few more men, milling around, and by the time they reached Jaha, sitting in the kitchen with a stern look on his face, he had counted more than ten.


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke was suddenly unsure, being inside Jaha's house. She became even more confused when coming face to face with her godfather, moments later.

Thelonious Jaha looked tired. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, suddenly reminding her of a time when he wasn't Mayor, and just a father. This Thelonious was so different to the one she'd been planning to kill; more haggard and sad-looking. She wondered, at the back of her mind, if she'd have the heart to kill this man. At the same time, she questioned if she ever had.

The moment Jaha saw her, he brightened a little.

"Clarke!" He exclaimed, both in surprise and happiness. He moved from his seat and embraced her happily, and Clarke returned the hug even though she was very aware of the gun in her waistband. As he pulled away, he gripped her arms and held her at a length. "It's been so long! What are you doing here?" Clarke smiled easily, falling into the script that she and Blake had decided upon; answers, reasons, questions - anything that would help them in the moment.

"I thought I'd bring my boyfriend to Cuba; you know, like we used to when I was little," she replied. She pulled away from Jaha's grip and tugged Blake forward, noting his guarded expression as he came face to face with the man he had been paid to murder. "Uncle Theo-" Blake's face darkened a little "this is Bellamy." The two shook hands, and Thelonious quickly invited them to have a drink - which Blake surprisingly agreed upon, claiming he'd tried something from the coffee shop around the corner, but it hadn't tasted anything like coffee.

"Ah, yes!" Thelonious laughed. "I've noticed the same thing myself, over the years. I wouldn't trust a damn thing from that shop - I think the owners are criminals, you know." Blake raised an eyebrow and Clarke found herself turning away from the kettle to look at her god father. Thelonious laughed again. "Daylight robbery, asking for people to pay for that mulch!" Blake quickly laughed and Clarke smiled, knowing this could take a while.

They knew that they couldn't kill him immediately - not with so many men, watching their every move. They just had to wait for their back up. So the conversation continued, and Thelonious told them about the Ball (Clarke had questioned him, saying she'd heard through the grape vine that he left before his speech) and he laughed at their faux-shocked expressions ("I was told that there was a sniper on the roof," he said, amazing even himself. "I don't know if it was one of mine, but I was anxious to get out in case it wasn't!").

Clarke wondered to herself if Thelonious Jaha was pretending to not know it was her on the roof - and didn't dismiss it throughout the conversation. It was the comments like "and I heard that you stopped being a soldier to be an artist - which we were all very shocked by! We all thought you loved killing people!" that got Clarke wondering. Unfortunately, she didn't have very long to wonder. Because that was when she heard the door open and a body fall to the floor.

Immediately, the suits sprang into action; a few moving towards Jaha, and others towards the sound. Jaha didn't say anything, but looked thoroughly afraid. Then the gunshots went off. Raven’s bullets only knocked out, and yet Murphy still refused to use the gun. They knew it was Miller taking everyone down, yet Murphy could still pack a punch, and the smoke that came reeling through the door meant that he came in handy for more than one thing that day. The sounds of shots being fired, and men falling hit Clarke's ears - but she didn't move. Blake had already moved forward to hide her body -  _just as any good fake boyfriend would_ , she told herself - but they couldn't jump in yet.

Not yet.

Then the shots fired through the window and a man standing by Jaha fell to the floor. The glass smashed to the floor and Clarke found herself wincing, her eyes clamping shut and her hands flying to her ears. She had known it was coming, but it made it no less scary.

Only moments later did Miller tread into the kitchen, gun in hand and a steely look on his face. Murphy was behind him, although holding a gun, less sure about using it. The shots had stopped raining through the open door, and three men stood in between them and Jaha. All three aimed their guns at Miller and Murphy, and only then did Blake raise his gun and shoot one in the neck ( _real bullets_ , Clarke sighed to herself.  _Real bullets in their guns_ ). The men fell, convulsing on the ground and gunfire reigned again.

Clarke fumbled for her gun - aware that if it had been any other target, her motions would have been deft.

She used the kitchen counter as her hiding spot, ducking as one man turned to fire at her and Blake. The two fired back as Miller shot at the other. There were no more shots coming from the house behind; no one being in range, she guessed. As both men fell, all guns were pointed at Jaha - cowering in the corner, with a look mixed of rage and fear, printed on his face. Tears tracked down his dark skin and she wondered how such a man could be a notorious drug dealer and money launderer. She held her breath and yet her finger wouldn't move on the trigger. No part of her could kill the man in front of her, and she knew by the slightly glint in his eyes as he met hers, that he knew it.

 -

Bellamy waited for Griffin to fire. In his mind, he gave her this kill. Admittedly, a little bit of it came down to the fact that his sister was watching from the hotel; that she had never seen him kill before (besides the man, moments before); that he never wanted her to (especially if it was in cold blood like this). Bellamy didn't want her to be able to picture him murdering another human being, and he was aware of the camera in the left hand corner of the room, and the people on the other end of it.

The other part of him giving her the kill came down to it being  _her_ godfather. This man may have betrayed his city, by being a criminal - but he betrayed her first. This was hers for the taking - and only the smallest portion of Bellamy cared that he could be giving up his reward money.

 -

Clarke waited for Blake to shoot. They stood, motionless in their silence. She knew that Jaha wouldn't speak - he was a smart enough man to know not to. He was buying time by staying quiet. She didn't look at her partners, but she knew the steely expressions that would be on their faces. She knew that Murphy wouldn't fire his gun; that it was likely to be empty, or full of blanks. She knew that Miller wouldn't fire; he was only trained and paid to fire in emergencies; he was not a trained killer. And she knew, in a hit of sudden realisation that Blake wouldn't fire - that he was letting her kill Jaha, and at the same time, risk the money that she knew he desperately needed.

 -

The silence spread onwards and Bellamy slowly felt his hand cramp. Jaha had stopped crying, and his set face seemed ready for death. And yet Bellamy didn't move. He didn't know if he should - if killing Jaha was worth it when his sister would see, and most definitely think differently of him, even if she would insist that she didn't. He also knew he couldn't take this kill; that no part of it was his.

And then, the silence broke.

"Fuck it," a voice said.

A gun shot rang out.

Jaha winced and slumped.

And blood seeped through his shirt.

-

Clarke heard the words and she knew that she didn't say them. She knew that Blake didn't say them. She knew the dying look in her godfather's eyes was not directly by her hand. She resisted the sob that crept up her throat as the blood bloomed on his shirt and she looked at her partners.

In particular, she looked at Murphy and his outstretched arm.

- 

Bellamy was surprised to see Murphy, slowly lowering his arm and looking away. But he was more surprised to see him look back. Murphy stared at the body, limp from his actions and watched the life drain away. Bellamy wondered what Murphy was feeling; but he was impassive. His face was blank, as if emotion had never reached his eyes before and Bellamy wanted to know what he was thinking.

Was his friend remembering his parents' deaths - not caused by his own hand but landed on his shoulders, anyway? Or was he picturing the gruesome murders he'd committed at ten years old. But, more likely, Bellamy thought, he was picturing the two and a half years in the juvenile detention centre that he served in stony silence, before being pardoned. He was only ten, the courts had pleaded. He was so young, they had said.

Bellamy watched as Murphy turned and walked away, out of sight until the front door slammed shut, and knew that he was still that child, really. He was still young, Bellamy thought. He may have been twenty seven, but Bellamy knew that the heart of the sixteen year old, building smoke bombs from scratch on the floor of a training room still very much beat in that scarred chest.

-

Two days later, Clarke sat in the living room of the Blake household, considering the fact that now the case was over and their money hadn't been retracted yet, she probably wouldn't be coming back again. She and Blake had paid Monty and Jasper for their efforts, and even given Murphy another ten grand - even though he'd barely said a word since he left the Jaha holiday home.

The news had covered the story; the murder of the Mayor and his men. No prints were found, with thanks to Miller's training, and they returned home a couple of days after, to avoid suspicion. Clarke phoned her mother the moment the story spread, and even listened as Abby Griffin cried over her friend.

And now, as Blake stood up, saying good bye to Jasper, Miller and Monty as they left, Clarke wondered if he would ever let her back in his house - let alone, when the next time she'd see him would be. She hadn't really noticed them, but she had feelings about the guy; actual, human emotions that told her that she definitely cared about him.

As he sat down next to her (and she couldn't help but notice the spare seats, littering the room), Murphy stood up from his arm chair. He muttered something about sleep, and neither Blake nor Clarke did anything but smile and wish him a good night as he made his way up the stairs and into Blake's room. (They were all sure that telling Murphy to go home would end terribly, and Blake didn’t mind Murphy sleeping in his bed and living in his house – as long as he remembered to flush the toilet and thank him when he left.) Then, they sat in silence.

They didn't say a word and Clarke liked that she didn't think they had to. Instead, he slipped his hand into hers, and she felt something flutter inside her, as she realised that he wasn't doing it because they had to fake anything. This was something more real, and Clarke had never been more grateful. So she looked over at Blake, smiling and he returned it (Clarke took a mental snapshot, knowing that real smiles that reached the eyes were rare around the older Blake).

When he spoke, Clarke nodded. She nodded and she was happy for the moment that she found the Grounders listing and decided to train. And she was happy for the moment she first came face to face with Bellamy Blake. And she was happy for every moment that lead them up to this one - because while she may not know what her emotions actually were - there were enough of them for her to happy, and to nod, and to smile at Blake for all it was worth.

"How about,” he suggested. “From now on, we work together? It seems that we’re better like that.” Blake was silent for a moment before he opened his mouth again. “Partners?" He had asked.

"Partners," Clarke agreed.                                      

 -

(It only took them another six months, Murphy's instatement as an agent assigned to kill, four more targets, Octavia's plan to learn everything Murphy knew about bombs and two life-threatening situations for them to stop calling each other by their last names.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this!
> 
> At the beginning I mentioned that I put this up a while ago, but looked over it today and thought against it - because I really disliked how it was fifteen thousand words in a single chapter. I decided to spread it out; make it multi-chapter and easier to get through. 
> 
> I really hope you liked it, so please comment and tell me what you think. I'm also a fan of assassin fics, so if you'd want to read another - say, Octavia's assassin journey or Miller's, or someone else's, PLEASE tell me. (What about Finn and Raven?! What about their lives? And what the fuck is Jasper doing? Did I even put Wick in this story???? Lots of unanswered things, tell me if you'd want them answered.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I appreciate all kudos, comments and bookmarks, so I seriously suggest you get onto that.  
> 


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